Bleeding Ink
by Passionworks
Summary: Ozula Week Prompt Five. Azula, curious about a scroll that lands her way, interrogates the man it was intended for. Even with time as a drawback, Azula is more than ready to reveal the bent and boiled longing she has stored for years.  Rated for content.


**Author's Note: This prompt here serves as redemption, since my previous entry was hideous, in my humble opinion… That is all that needs to be said.**

**I think I have written something similar to this before, but it may have been with Zhao instead of Ozai. Oh, well, I was a bit desperate.**

Prompt Five: Clocks

_We don't have time for this…_

Bleeding Ink

By: Passionworks

…

"_We'd better think about the things we say._

_We' better think about the games we play._

_The world went round,_

_Around and round._

_We'd better think about the consequences._

_We'd better think about the global senses._

_The time went out._

_Yeah, the time went out."_

_-Time Is Ticking Out_

_(The Cranberries: from the 2001 album, 'Wake Up and Smell the Coffee')_

Lord Ozai's boredom is speedily gaining shape as he continues lettering the parchment in his typical fancy and dignified script. His capitals are quite arrogant: great and bold they are in comparison to the lowercase ones. Oh, it is another business transcript he is writing. How he despises paperwork. It is one of the most prominent downfalls to his trade as lord to his nation. Why is it up to him to write these things? He should leave it to the palace's war administers. The strategists, even. Well, there is but one profound reason that exists for why it is his duty to scribe the transcripts (aside from the fact that all orders stem from his word). And that reason is this: he does not want to be called an idealess, ill-informed figurehead like the shameful leader of the Earth Kingdom. Oh, Lord Ozai has heard a lot about this king. His advisors and political extremists run the show. The Earth King only sits upon the throne because he has the looks for it. He is lean-faced and gracious in appearance, and probably easy to dethrone. What that man does not know is that being in the loop is very vital in critical times like these. And if Firelord Ozai has to constitute monotony in order to maintain his understanding on politics and warfare, then so be it.

Dismissing his previous feelings of resentment and bitterness, Ozai weaves his way through a couple of stacks, his writing hand cramping a bit. He carefully dries the ink from his black-tipped brush. Knowing very well that his temperature is steadily rising, he wipes a tired palm across his forehead. The sweat instantly coats the soft flesh.

He hears an affirmative knock. Strange, the servants should know he is busy at this hour in the night.

Without even bothering to lift his head from his work station or offer a term of repudiation, he calls out, "Come in."

From the outside of the door, he hears his visitor say, "Oh, Father, I would have liked a bit more enthusiasm from you."

Azula opens the door wide open, like it is a curtain with the sole purpose of unveiling her. She steps on proud toes. Her bosom is protruded as she saunters in and her smile is crooked, devious. The princess is cunning in her manner of entry, which usually means one of two things: she wants a favor of him, or she has accomplished something and is in need of some congratulation.

"Azula. What is it you wish to tell me this fine evening?" Ozai asks her, cocking his head and offering her an indirect grimace.

"A request of some sort has landed on my desk, Father. It is addressed to you," Princess Azula replies, the smile on her face melting into something that could barely be called a frown. Her eyebrows furrow as she stares questioningly at her father, her gold orbs deepening under the shade of the Firelord's chamber. "Commander Chan's calling a request to meet at Ember Island. The details are rather narrow."

"So," Ozai states with newfound jollity. He slyly presses his fingers together. "You never heard the news, did you?"

"What news?" she asks him as her arms cross below her shapely breasts. She huffs, a strand of her hair blowing back into its place.

"Admiral Zhao was killed at the North Pole. Chan's inauguration as admiral is within a week. I'm sure this request is related to this event. When am I to depart?"

"Tomorrow, it says." Azula states this without real conviction. Her expression reveals nothing now. Perhaps she is saddened by the news of the prized Admiral Zhao's untimely passing. Ozai is sure she had a little crush on the man, but it never lead to anything in particular. There were no sparks to speak of, and Ozai knows well that Azula never gets entangled in relationships without them first benefitting her.

"It comes as short notice," she says after a brief bout of stillness. "I apologize for not getting this to you right away."

Firelord Ozai is suddenly curious by the strange tone of her voice. It is depressive, low in pitch, mirthless.

"Azula," he inquires, "are you really upset about Zhao's demise?"

"No," she answers quickly, not enjoying this short interrogation. She is a bit shaken by her father's evocative question, but she then says, "I care not for him. He was too ruthless to be my type of man. No wonder he was so easily commandeered. By the Avatar, I presume."

"There is speculation that _Zuko _was at fault, but I doubt it. An attack stemming from the Spirit World is the likely culprit."

"Look, Father," she cuts in, "this isn't what I am here for. I wish to hear nothing more on Zhao."

Her face is now obviously housing a heated scowl. She is glowering at him accusingly, her expression telling him that he somehow evoked her weakness and brought it forth without thought or care into how it would make her feel. Ozai sees her left hand clench tightly around the sheep-skinned paper and her teeth bite her lip, like she is trying her hardest not to erupt at him.

"Then, what is it? As you can see, I'm rather busy with all these transactions, and if I am to leave by the morning rise, then I suggest you leave me to my work."

The royal father turns from her, and resumes his writing, dipping his brush back into the ink and scribbling his signature onto the topmost piece of parchment.

"The paperwork can wait, Father," Azula informs from behind him, the scroll marking Commander Chan's request waggling in her hand. "Tell me more about this meeting this so-called replacement is planning. I heard rumors of deception relating to auctorial matters. He is lying in the letter."

She pauses, drawing a bit more emphasis into her argument. "This request to meet is not about Chan's promotion, is it? It's about something else, something you're not telling me. What is it?"

"If you must know, I am looking to make Chan's boy your suitor. I was going to tell you when you turned sixteen. He's only four years your senior, he's a noble, his father's high-ranked in the military. You would never have to abandon your passion for war tactics. Yours will be a perfect marriage."

"I haven't seen Chan's son since I was _five,_ Father, when he attended one of those palace balls. I hardly know him, he probably doesn't remember me at all, and besides, I have already decided who I wish to marry."

Ozai scowls, feeling slightly dejected that Azula would dismiss his efforts. "Who?"

Azula places her weight on her right side, the backs of her hands resting at her hips. "I think you already know the answer to that question." She is unexpectedly right up in front of her father, her faultless smile growing incredibly.

"I do, do I?"

"I like to think that you do."

Azula yanks Ozai's chin and presses his thin lips to her full ones without even the slightest indication of patience. The act is simply out of the bent and boiled longing she has stored for years. This hunger had only revealed itself in furtive glances, secretive thoughts –the things she thought she could tame and maintain.

She drops the scroll to the floor, letting it roll out. And the Firelord's ink-tipped brush falls atop it, the blank paint bleeding from it like a wound. The document's proposition is literally erased.

Forgotten.


End file.
